


Thoughts Re: John Watson

by quixoticlie



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, How John charmed the pants off of Sherlock, John being John, M/M, POV Sherlock Holmes, Redecorating the mind palace, Sherlock Being Sherlock, according to Sherlock, stream of thought
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-22
Updated: 2013-12-22
Packaged: 2018-01-05 12:11:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1093729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quixoticlie/pseuds/quixoticlie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock tries to suss out how John fits into his life and his Mind Palace, and how John came to have his very own room there.</p><p>It's essentially a short but, (hopefully for people other than just me) an emotional look into Sherlock beginning to try to unravel the Watson Mystery</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thoughts Re: John Watson

**Author's Note:**

> Okay! So A) this is definitely the first sort of fan fictiony thing I've written. Heh. But hopefully that won't discourage you! B) it just came out as one sort of brain dump, and isn't beta'd at all. Any mistakes are very much mine. I used italics and bold to help show shifts of inflection, as they happen in my head, but if anyone thinks it's too much or has suggestions (n00b to this platform for writing) feel free to let me know. C) this is from Sherlock's point of view, so it's rather... Erratic. And D) I really do hope you like it. And it's not too hard to understand. Or weird.

One day he crawled inside of my brain. 

Not in the cliche way, where the words really mean that someone has wormed their way into being all that one can think about. 

But, that the secret room in the dark part of my consciousness was accidentally found, between cups of tea and awkwardly comfortable silences. 

He crawled into my brain in the way that I didn't think anyone would want to. Unguarded and unmasked, awash in petty sadness and the psychedelic shock treatment that my brain goes through when the excitement from a case wears off, he likely asked me something simple. 

_"Alright, then?"_

He didn't know that this question was his ticket into the circus tent of my mind, and I didn't know that he would encourage it, pressing for more. 

_More_

Pressing for more

Instead of subduing this odd quirk and playing off that I was above it all, I indulged him, as he said such pretty things. Small little pretty things. 

Those crawled inside of my brain, too, but the other way. The cliche way. 

It's the eternal curse of the creative mind to be one of dichotomy, perhaps, and to create and destroy in the same breath, wanting to show! Share! Feel! While demanding to hide, bury, forget. 

He won't stand for it. He's gotten his ticket fair and square and he wants more.

More

_And more_

And he wants more

And I ignore it. And I don't. And I indulge him. And I don't. And I go mad for it and mad for it

Get mad from it

Go _mad._

He explored it, and found the secret room. The hidden stash. The boxes piled on shelves because thy weren't perfect or worth it or pretty or nice. They weren't for public consumption. 

**I'M NOT FOR PUBLIC CONSUMPTION.**

He opens each ruined withered box. Slowly. Or quickly, while I flit around the edges with anxiety tainted breaths, like a mother when a stranger holds her baby. 

He opens each ruined withered box. Slowly. Or quickly, and sometimes I rush him and I push it away. And sometimes I rush him and tear it open, shoving the contents in his face. _Shoving_ the contents in his face to make him _see_ it or to make him regret it and _this_ andmeand _me_

and _me._

Sometimes I don't talk for weeks on end. Circus closed. No entry. 

Sometimes it's all I can do to keep from crawling through these wires to pull him through to the other side. Push my thumbs into his eyes and blind him so that he can see. Tear my skin off. Rip my tongue out. 

I rail against the pedestal that I crawl on and shout and shout and shout

Fake. 

**FAKE.**

And the things he would see if he could see. Things that need a trim and things that are festering and things that are covered in toxic mould and things that are covered in chocolate and _things_ and _things_ he would _see_ in there and he does. _Every time._ He does. 

And pretty little words, little worming pretty words. Cliche worming words.

One day he crawled inside of my brain. 

So I created him his own room.


End file.
